


Sparring

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, Danger, Feels, Fights, First Kiss, First Time, Hidden Feelings, Intense, Kissing, Love, M/M, Making Out, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sparring, Training, intense feelings, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hold me down, hold me down</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Throw me in the deep end, watch me drown</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Knock me out, knock me out</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Saying that I want more, this is what I live for</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Halsey || Hold Me Down</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparring

**Author's Note:**

> Sparring OTP-inspired fic, in which Jean and Marco spar, and Jean beats Marco for the first time. Includes sexual tension, first time kisses, and sweet desperation and feels. Enjoy. (thanks [novelist angel](http://novelistangel23.tumblr.com))

** :: **

It’s dark when Jean wakes Marco – the entire barracks quiet with the exception of the rustle of Jean’s sheets.

“Marco.  _Marco_.” Jean whispers in the darkness. He prods at Marco’s shoulder, earning him a quick slap from Marco’s hand to brush him away. But he persists nonetheless, shaking his friend just gently enough to rouse him with a slight groan.

“Ugh,  _what_?” Marco grits out, rolling over to face his friend. “This better be good.”

He yawns heavily, if only to punctuate to Jean that he’d just managed to fall into the throngs of a solid sleep.

“I want to practice.” Jean states firmly, voice only low to keep the others from hearing them.

Marco groans again and pushes his head down into his pillow, clenching his eyes shut.

“Are you still on that? No. It’s late. Go to sleep.”

“Come on… I… I can do it. I know what I’ve been doing wrong.”

“What you’ve been doing ‘wrong’ is having a slightly smaller frame than me. Go to sleep.”

“Please, Marco?” Jean pleads again, but Marco doesn’t reply.

Marco tucks himself down into his sheets again, nuzzling softly into his pillow. But Jean won’t let up, hand reaching out to drag the sheets down off Marco’s shoulders. Marco bristles at the chill of the room and pushes up onto his elbow, eyeing Jean with slight hint of annoyance. But the pleading look on Jean’s face is enough to brush the irritation aside, even only slightly. And so, Marco sighs, and shakes his head.

“Goddamnit, okay,  _fine_. Let’s go.”

::

Sneaking out of the barracks is usually pretty easy: the majority of their comrades could sleep through a wall breach. The hardest part is usually creeping past the senior officers’ barracks, but in the dead of the night, the two of them manage to slip by relatively unnoticed. They head wordlessly to the training building, sliding inside as quietly as they can, and making sure to close up all the windows and doors before lighting any of the lanterns.

The room is still a bit dim with the nighttime, even with the gentle glow of the lanterns that illuminate them. But it’s more than enough to work with and Jean is grateful for it. They do this too often – not at night anyway – but once in a blue moon, Jean will get it in his head that “tonight’s the night” he’ll finally best Marco in hand-to-hand combat.

Over the course of their training years, Marco has always had the upper hand on him. Larger size, firmer musculature, and reaction speed that can be outright intimidating, so it isn’t much of a surprise that Jean’s been second best next to him. Not to say that Jean hasn’t tried. Jean is  _more_  than strong in his own right – but his lithe and spry body tends to serve him best on the wires of their maneuver gear rather than in individual combat. Pit Marco against him there, and Jean will show him to the ground the hard way.

But they aren’t using their ODM gear now.

Marco wraps his hands and limbers himself up a bit, stretching out his arms and shoulders in fluid, dynamic stretches as he watches Jean do the same. Rotating his arms around a bit, he moves towards the cabinets and pulls down one of the wooden practice daggers they keep stowed away for training. He twirls it in his fingers, walking towards Jean and ready to ask if Jean wants to start with or without the weapon. But Jean simply takes it from him and sets it aside.

Marco eyes him curiously as Jean reaches into the back of his pants and drags a small sheathed knife out from his pocket.

Jean unsheathes it and shows it to Marco hesitantly. It glints a little in the flickering light of the lanterns, but Marco can tell that it’s dulled down. Dull, but real nonetheless, and Marco will admit that he’s a little confused. They’ve never sparred using anything but the fake practice dagger and despite how dull it might look, using a real dagger seems ill-advised at best.

“I wanna use this.” Jean says firmly.

“…Why?” Marco says, taking it from Jean’s grip.

Jean licks his lips.

“ _This_  has been the problem. There’s no danger from a wooden dagger. I don’t… I never see you as an actual threat –”

“Because I’m  _not_.” Marco punctuates, but Jean continues.

“You aren’t an enemy to me; so I don’t fight you like one.”

Marco says nothing, toying with the silver dagger in his hands. He drags his gaze over it again before lifting his eyes to meet Jean’s.

“I don’t want to hurt you…” Marco mumbles, quickly turning the blade around and offering it back to Jean handle-first.

But Jean won’t accept it.

“You won’t. I know you won’t. I want to try with it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll go back to the fake.”

Jean keeps his eyes locked with Marco’s until Marco finally sighs and nods slowly.

“Then... you take the dagger first, at least,” Marco says, trying once more to hand Jean the dagger, but Jean refuses.

“No.” He insists, pushing Marco’s hand away, “There's no immediate danger if I’ve got the weapon from the start. It has to be you.”

Marco bites his lip and sighs before finally nodding.

“Fine. Let’s just do this.”

Jean takes his defensive stance, waiting patiently as Marco assumes his position: dagger in his right hand, left hand ready to strike.

“Don’t hold back.” Jean instructs with a nod.

And Marco obeys, if only because it’s what Jean wants.

He takes a few offensive steps forward, and Jean retreats in kind, arms up and ready for whatever blows Marco is geared up to swing at him. The hesitancy that Marco might’ve felt before dissipates as he watches determination form across Jean’s brow and he moves as if this were just a normal sparring session between them and not one that held an actual weapon.

The first strike isn’t with the dagger. Marco moves instead with his non-dominant hand if only in an attempt to surprise Jean, but his companion blocks the blow in kind, and he dodges with swiftness as Marco moves to swing the knife down on the follow-through. He tries to throw a punch at Marco, but he’s not quick enough as Marco rears back away from the shot in trademarked quickness.

The two of them persist – jabbing and dancing along the room in combat. The fight moves fast, and they both know it, but in the heat of it all, it feels as if each move is slow and fluid, as if they could watch it from outside their own bodies if they so chose. Each blow Marco flings is blocked with either Jean’s bicep or forearm: punches dodged, jabs deflected. Marco does manage to get a quick punch in to Jean’s side, but Jean spins away from it as it touches him, one arm swinging out to catch Marco along the jaw. Marco dodges – but only barely, Jean’s knuckles grazing him with a flash of pain. And Marco has to admit, he’s a little impressed, but the fight isn’t over.

Knife still gripped firmly in his right hand, he throws a backhand with his left arm, and Jean blocks it with a sudden sense of urgency as he sees Marco’s right hand poised to swing down on him for a fatal blow. Jean rears away with a quickness Marco hasn’t seen in him before, his left arm flinging out to block the blow and spin Marco’s right arm in the opposite direction.

The move works, redirecting his trajectory so that the knife would be useless from his vantage. It’s a daring move, but one that’s worked before: Marco flicks his right wrist, releasing the knife from his grip to flip around mid-air. Normally, he’d catch it right back in his right hand once it was turned the way he needed it, but there’s a certain flare that’s fired up inside Jean tonight. Instead of catching it, Jean’s left hand darts out and snags the knife from the middle of the air, and suddenly, Marco watches his advantage disappear.

The slight moment of distraction from watching Jean gain control of the knife is what does Marco in. Within an instant, Jean swings a blow into Marco’s side, causing Marco to retreat. Jean flips the knife from his left hand into his right, and steps forward as Marco steps back.

Despite the disadvantage, Marco doesn’t hesitate to block whatever blows Jean tries to throw at him. Blunt force against his forearms and elbows as they move together. Marco tries to throw out another punch, but Jean catches his wrist firmly between his fingers. Jean uses the hold to control him, taking the advantage as it comes, haranguing Marco’s arm up and using the leverage to coerce Marco backwards.

Before Marco even time to think, his back is slamming against the wall, and the blunt force of the knife is pressing gently against the heated flesh of his throat.

There’s nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing echoing through the otherwise silent room. Jean has Marco’s left arm pinned by the wrist up over his head; the right isn’t pinned, but with the blade at his neck, he doesn’t dare move it. Marco can feel Jean’s body shaking up against his, he can see the heated shine in Jean’s eyes.

Marco smiles.

Because Jean beat him.

Jean beat him when it mattered. Jean had been right; he needed the danger. He needed Marco to be an enemy and he’d finally done it.

Marco expects the laughter, the boasting, the immodesty – because that’s how Jean is. He’s prideful and strong-willed, never slow to congratulate his own accomplishments, and that’s what Marco loves about him.

But the bragging never comes. The pride doesn’t come.

All that Marco sees is the intense focus Jean has on him. All he can see is the fire in Jean’s eyes as he stares at him – but it isn’t fire from the fight, and Marco is becoming increasingly aware of that fact. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he sees in Jean's eyes, but he knows it isn’t the flare of victory. This is something else.  

He swallows thickly, watching as Jean’s mouth parts a little, fingers squeezing around Marco’s wrist against the wall.

Marco had expected gloating: the prideful triumph of a first time, hard-earned victory. He hadn’t expected the sound of the knife clattering to the floor in the silence, or the urgent groan that slipped past Jean’s mouth; he hadn’t expected Jean’s lips to slam against his own.

But Jean’s hand has replaced the cold metal of the knife along the expanse of his throat, fingers cradling the sensitive flesh tenderly while his mouth sears itself against Marco’s own. It’s urgent to a point where Marco isn’t even fully aware of what is happening or how – all he knows is the way Jean swallows his breath and the way he surges forward into Jean’s mouth like it’s all he’s ever wanted to breathe.

Jean keeps him pinned for a moment, body hard and firm against his own as their mouths open without reservation, but he opts to release Marco’s arm in favor of grappling at his flesh. Marco’s arm drops to his waist immediately, Jean’s hand dragging along Marco’s heaving chest: flush and hot even through the fabric of his shirt. Marco lets himself hold onto Jean, fingers grabbing and curling along his friend’s hipbone, if only as a means of keeping himself stable.

The hand that held the knife to his neck, the hand that hand gripped his throat, it cradles his jaw tenderly now but still with urgency, helping to angle Marco’s head to the side so Jean can kiss him more deeply.

And Marco could swear that Jean was shaking.

Eyes clenched shut – Jean swallows him whole, kissing the air and words from his mouth, and Marco never wants to protest. In the flurry, in the heated frenzy, Marco wants him to slow down. He lifts his hands from Jean’s waist to cradle the sides of Jean’s face and urge them apart. Jean lets him break their kiss, but still tries to lean back in with a desperate, small whimper, but Marco keeps him at bay. He cradles Jean’s face and strokes his thumbs along Jean’s cheeks, coated in a gentle sheen of sweat. Whether it’s from their fray or from their kiss, Marco isn’t sure, but knows it doesn’t really matter.

Jean whimpers again and Marco leans in to claim his mouth once more, letting Jean take control once more.

Once he relinquishes himself to Jean, he can feel Jean’s hands trying to guide them, quiet words that Marco can’t make out mumbled urgently against his mouth as he does so. Jean tugs him away from the wall, urges them downwards, down to the floor. Flat on his back, he lets Jean kiss him, tries to decipher the things Jean’s mouth wants to say against his lips.

They’re just sounds that Marco knows should be meaningful and he mumbles “what”s right back to Jean.

“ ‘ot n ‘enmy” Jean stammers through their clashes of tongue and teeth.

“What?” Marco wants to say, but Jean swallows the question whole.

He threads his fingers through Marco’s hair, tugs on the strands, angles Marco’s head to the side.

It’s only when Jean pulls away to mouth and bite along the skin of Marco’s neck that he actually hears him. He feels Jean’s words ghosting along the skin of his throat, punctuating with each pulse of blood that beats through his neck.

“Not an enemy, not my.. never…” Jean mutters frantically, body urgent to move in closer to Marco’s, to grind along the expanse of him, almost as if to reassure himself. And Marco understands quickly. He groans under Jean’s ministrations, head pushed back against the hard wood of the floor, fingers digging grappling at the line of Jean’s hips.

He shakes his head, curling his fingers up under the hem of Jean’s shirt, turning his head once more to hopefully regain his friend’s mouth.

“No. Never.” He reassures Jean, urging their lips together once more.

 ::

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks guys! This was kinda short and messy, but I just couldn't resist something like this. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! If you did, you know I'd be more than grateful for a like/reblog/kudos/comment. 
> 
> Rebloggable version [HERE](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/131137634288/sparring-jeanmarco-ficlet).
> 
> And, as usual, you can find me on [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).


End file.
